Hear Me Roar

I had many a good intention of getting this post out much, much earlier in the week. But wouldn't you know it, it's now Friday and I'm scrambling to get it together. Hmmm...seems like that's sort of a theme in my life, doesn't it?

Sunday was race day, and as you're probably sick of hearing, my left knee had decided to remind me that my old age was creeping up closer than I wanted to admit. Running had been pretty much out of the question for the four weeks leading up to the half marathon. I had managed a few miles here and there, but for the most part I couldn't get through more than a half mile at a time without any pain. I was seeing a physical therapist and icing and foam rolling like my life depended on it, and even though it didn't seem logical, I still convinced myself that come race day the adrenaline would kick in, my knee would magically feel amazing, and those thirteen miles would fly right by.

Ha.

It's probably a good thing that I didn't write this post on Sunday night, or even the next couple of days, because mostly all you would have seen on this page was a lot of really bad words, mixed in with some blabbering about knees and hips and ankles and muscle cramps, and I am never running again in my life, ever, ever, ever.

But like I said earlier, I'm a bit of a procrastinator, and because of my laziness busy schedule I've now spent the better part of the week thinking about my race and letting my body recover.

The race was hard. Really hard. Probably one of the hardest things I've done, physically and mentally, in my life. The adrenaline did kick in, for like the first mile. And then maybe again when I saw Mike, Anna, my mom, and T.J. around mile eight. And then maybe, maybe, it sort of gave me a slight nudge when I finally saw possibly the two most glorious words ever posted on a banner: finish and line. Mostly by that point, though, I was just trying not to throw up.

I won't go into a bunch of boring details of how much it sucked, though, because parts of the race were awesome. Crossing the Ambassador Bridge. High five-ing and getting cheered on by strangers. The woman who kept shouting, "I'm forty-four! And I'm running a marathon!!" Smothering my baby girl with kisses as we ran by, and the pride that I felt when she saw her mama cross the finish line. The hugs from Mike when it was over, who let me escape so many early Saturday mornings to run, and endured my non-stop obsessing over my knee. The fact that my sister, who was totally healthy and who once aspired to finish in under two hours, stuck by my slow, gimpy side the whole race without so much as a complaint, despite my moaning and groaning and the evil glances I was shooting in her direction.

Special shout out to my good friend Steven for taking these pics and for coming to cheer us on!

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but toot toot, y'all. Because at the end of the day (well the end of the week, really), I am able to look back on it and see that while, yes, it was awful and long (so very long) and three of my toenails may never grow back like they should, it was also empowering and inspiring and a sweet reminder that I am a strong, capable, healthy woman who has much to be thankful for.